


something slow, something good

by hiuythn



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Falling In Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-05
Updated: 2017-08-05
Packaged: 2018-12-11 15:28:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11717214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hiuythn/pseuds/hiuythn
Summary: They fall together in increments, like the shifting of glaciers, of mountains strong and true. They fall in together, and it's inevitable.---Keith lands half on him and half on Red, laughing unrestrainedly. There’s fruit stains all over his mouth and chin and more on his hands and shirt, and Lance can feel the stickiness catch on his hair where Keith’s buried his fingers into.





	something slow, something good

**Author's Note:**

> celebrating s3 with a fic, though i have no idea where this would fit in the timeline LOL
> 
> enjoy, friends!

_It starts like this:_

_“Lance, you want me to get you seconds while I’m at it?”_

_“Sure, thanks buddy.”_

_Or maybe it was like this:_

_“You take the ones on the left, I’ll take the ones on the right?”_

_“Let’s do this.”_

_Or was it:_

_“Hey, hey, buddy, stay with me, c’mon, look—look at me, Keith—Keith!”_

_But regardless, it starts without either of them noticing._

 

 

 

 

Insultingly enough, it’s not a large-scale battleship that captures them, but a modest _cargo ship_ boasting a crew of about sixty galra sentries and a two-man pilot team. They only had one holding cell so they couldn’t even afford to separate them, just throwing him and Keith in together, sans helmets and bayard.

It’s just _sad_.

“I want to say this is your fault,” Keith muses, “and while it’d be true, it’d also be unfair because—”

“—you would’ve done the exact same, yeah I know. You’re a bad influence on me,” Lance says, wrapping the torn piece of shirt once more around Keith’s calf. He then ties a tight knot and _yanks_. Keith makes a short groan of pain and slumps back down on the floor, breathing hard. Lance gives his knee a little sympathetic pat.

“Okay?” he asks, and receives a sloppy nod. “Cool. Uh, let me look at your side?”

Keith lifts his hands slowly, as if afraid even exposure to the air will kill him instantly. Lance takes one look and flinches. The entire lower right side of Keith’s abdomen is stained red, the wetness glistening on his black undersuit, and Lance, confronted by so much blood, flounders for a tick.

“S’it bad,” Keith asks, and his eyes are closed when Lance looks up.

A firm shake of his head clears the rising panic and Lance looks back at the wound with a clearer head. It’s stopped bleeding but with how much blood that has already soaked into the suit, it can’t help but look really damn bad. Unable to help himself, he skims the pad of his fingers a few centimeters under it, with barely any pressure. His glove comes away red.

“Lance?” Keith asks again and tries raising his head, only to abort halfway with a tight grunt of pain when the action pulls on his injury.

“Whoa there, bud, just stay still alright?” Lance places a hand on Keith’s chestplate, quirking his lips in a worried smile. Keith doesn’t reply, too busy catching his breath. After a while, after Lance is sure Keith’s past the bout of pain, he says, “You’ll probably live—”

“Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence—”

“—but we’ll have to wrap it with my shirt like your leg. It’s all we have.”

Keith sighs. “I’m gonna be infected with your germs.”

This would be where Lance replies with something jokingly scornful but now, he just looks at Keith for a few silent ticks, taking in the sweat at his brow, his heaving chest and the periodical twitching of his hands. Lance pushes down the urge to grip those fingers between his and shrugs his shirt off. Looks like he’s going to have to shred it completely for this one. The cold air of the cell raises goosebumps on his bare skin.

“Talk to me,” he orders, steadily rendering the shirt to one long bandage.

“About what,” Keith says. His eyes are still closed.

“Anything. Nothing. Just stay with me—stay awake, I mean—because we need to figure out how to get out of here before they fly us too far out of the castle’s range.” _And before you bleed out_ , he doesn’t dare say. Finished with the shirt, he gently nudges Keith’s arm until he opens his eyes. “Can you sit up?”

Keith nods and with Lance’s help, ends up slumped against the cell wall, dazed with pain again _. At least his eyes are open_ , Lance thinks, wrapping the strip of fabric around his waist. He twitches slightly every time Lance winds the fabric over the wound. This close to each other, practically hugging, Lance feels his every shiver, every shaky breath.

“Keith. _Keith_ ,” Lance says, his hands pausing in their task. He waits until Keith blinks at him blearily. “Talk. Like, uh—see anything that could get us out of here?”

“Right.” Licking his lips, Keith looks around the cell slowly, but his eyes have regained that familiar focused gleam. “Don’t see any panels we could get into and rewire, no vent—air comes through a different way then. The, uh, door’s probably locked with a handprint scanner—maybe next time they open and close it, we could jam something in it and leverage it open when they leave?”

“Sounds good, man,” Lance says, and tries not to show the doubt on his face as he finishes his shoddy first-aid attempt. On an impulse, he reaches up and wipes the sweat from Keith’s forehead with the sleeve of his undersuit.

Keith gives a short laugh and stares back at him, a strange look in his eye. “Don’t pretend, Lance, I _know_ we’re kind of fucked.”

“Only kind of?” Lance jokes, zipping his undersuit up and fixing his armor back in place. When the last arm brace snaps together, he folds his legs underneath him, leaning back on the wall next to Keith. He doesn’t comment when the other paladin leans against his shoulder. The cell is quiet for the next while, air hissing in through somewhere periodically, cold and smelling vaguely of something like feet. Keith’s laboured breathing stabilizes but when Lance glances over, the pallor of his face has gotten paler. His eyes have glazed over and Lance realizes he’s going to have to figure this all out on his own.

_Shit, I’m gonna get us killed._

 

 

 

“Capture the flag?” Hunk asks.

“Capture the flag?!” Lance exclaims.

“Capture the flag,” Coran affirms, handing them both two different coloured flags, one purple, one pink. He nods his head to Shiro, who gives a small wave. “You can thank Shiro for the idea.”

Lance thrusts his into the air, anticipation almost pouring from his entire being. “YES! This is going to be so much fun, dude.”

Hunk scrutinizes his pink one, and then his eyes widen. He looks at Coran, who is looking back, smugly stroking his moustache. “Wait, why did you give us different flags?”

Coran’s eyes narrow into mischievous slits, and then he throws his hands out and gleefully announces, “Because you’re going to be on separate teams!”

“Oh,” say Pidge, Shiro, and Keith.

“What,” says Lance.

“Wait no,” says Hunk.

“YES!” says Coran, heedless to the horror in Lance’s face and Hunk’s blatant attempt at puppy-dog eyes. “Team Purple will consist of Shiro, Pidge, and Lance. Team Pink will be Hunk, Keith—and the Princess will be joining to even the odds! I’ll be refereeing!”

“What!” Lance says, “Not only do you have _Hunk_ , but two _other_ powerhouses? Pink is stacked!”

“Thank you,” Allura says, smiling.

Hunk shrugs apologetically.

Keith just continues having no discernable expression other than vague confusion.

“The teams have been decided, Lance.” Coran gives his shoulder a consoling pat. Gesturing to the expanse of land in front of them, he says, “The Olkari have graciously allowed us to utilize a section of their grounds for this exercise; I’ve split the territory in half with markers. They’ve also created for us a close approximant of—what do you call them, again?” he asks Shiro.

“Paintball guns,” says Shiro. Lance immediately casts aside the resentment of being separated from Hunk with sheer exhilaration for the game. _Paintball guns and Capture the Flag._ “We figured tapping each other on the arm doesn’t quite…”

“…simulate the attacks actual enemies would produce,” Coran fills in.

At this, Keith perks up. “Wait, are you saying we can go all out? Make like actual enemies?”

Lance turns to him slowly. “Are _you_ saying you’ve been holding back?”

Keith just raises an eyebrow. Behind him, Pidge and Hunk go “Ooooooh hohoho!” Lance hates them.

“Yes, you are welcome to ‘go all out,’ as it will make this exercise go a lot easier,” Coran continues. “I’ve briefed the Princess on the game rules and Shiro tells me you are all familiar with it from your time at the Garrison.”

Shiro runs a sheepish hand over his head. “At least, I think you should. It was a regular intro exercise to the tactics class when I was there. Plus, it’s a common Earth game.”

“Yeah, it’s still a Garrison thing. And even our resident cryptid knows the game,” Pidge says, jabbing a thumb at Keith, who just mouths the word ‘cryptid’ to himself, brows furrowed.

“Anywho,” Coran says, gesturing to the Olkari-grade paintball guns, “take up your arms, teams. You have fifteen doboshes to prepare your assault.”

The respective teams split, Lance and Hunk sharing an over-dramatic farewell hug that has eyes rolling and mouths smiling, and then they’re all running off into the dense trees.

“So, what’s our gameplan, sir?” Lance asks, once Team Purple has sequestered themselves from prying eyes.

Shiro gives him an amused look. “You’re taking this really seriously, Lance.”

“He’s just happy we’re not fighting the droids or doing the maze again.” Pidge grins and nudges Lance with an elbow. He nudges her back, sticking out his tongue. Shiro huffs at the both of them, lips curled up.

“No offense to our Altean friends, but those things suck compared to this. It’s been so long since we’ve done anything this fun—even if it’s training. Plus, I _rocked_ Capture the Flag every time,” Lance says, and blows exaggeratedly at the muzzle of his gun. His teammates roll their eyes at him in poorly-disguised fondness.

“Alright, here’s what we’re gonna do.” Shiro grabs a stick and starts outlining a rough sketch in the dirt. “Lance, I want you on defense, take up a sniper position somewhere in the trees away from the flag. Stay silent and stay vigilant; don’t let them spot you.”

Lance nods, eyes already scanning the trees and marking possible positions.

Shiro turns to Pidge and draws lines into what he’s labelled as enemy territory. “Pidge, you’re with me. We go in, and once deep enough, I’ll draw their attention by going for the flag and getting spotted, engaging them long enough for you to hopefully grab it and go. We can work out specifics while we get into position.”

Pidge nods hesitantly. “Okay. Seems pretty simple though—and won’t they think it’s out of character for you to do something so reckless?”

“We’ve only got three people, simple is all we can do. They’ll just assume I’m working from that; gunning for a quick and risky assault due to little manpower.” Shiro grins. “Plus, I never said we couldn’t lay traps to lead them into.”

“Ooo, good idea,” says Lance. “Should we place some around the flag, too?”

Shiro shakes his head. “Normally yes, but our time is up.” Then he gives Lance a smile. “Plus, I think you’re enough to hold them off.”

Lance straightens, feeling a surprised flush work its way up his neck. He gives Shiro a nod and with little fanfare, the team splits up. Lance instantly starts scaling up the tree he’s selected, gun slung over his back. Settling in between a cluster of branches, he makes sure the greenery sufficiently covers all of him, but not his view of the area.

And then, he waits.

Over the comms, he hears Pidge and Shiro work through their plan, and he turns down the volume, letting their quiet tones of conversation wash over him. He lets his muscles relax, lets his breathing grow light, lets his ears grow familiar to the sounds of the forest, even as his vigilantly sweeps his gaze through the area. He doesn’t know how much time passes, but he stays still, stays ready. There’s a reason he’s the guardian of _water_.

And then, there’s a noise.

Imperceptible, it almost goes unnoticed in the rustle of the forest, but Lance hears it. He doesn’t move his head, just breathes even softer, waiting for it.

It comes again, just a touch louder and Lance quietly turns his head and only his head, eyes searching. They light upon red armor and even as he hollers internally, he takes another couple of glances around the area, looking for other players. Only when he doesn’t spot another sneaking around, does he raise his paintball gun to his eyes, keeping Keith in his sight. Flashes of red jump from tree to tree and Lance almost loses him twice, that sneaky son of a gun.

A few paces away from the ring of the clearing, Keith hesitates. His mouth moves and he seems to be speaking softly to his team over comms, gaze darting around suspiciously as his brows furrow further. Lance lets a small smile grow on his lips.

Reaching a decision, Keith stands up from his crouch and moves forward. Lance watches him stop at the line where the shrubbery ends, watches him take a single step into the clearing, watches him practically vibrate with tension as he waits for something to happen. _He’s exercising caution_ , Lance realizes with a surprised blink, and he feels that old rivalry flare up again, because Keith’s changed—he’s learned something, and damn if it doesn’t make Lance want to reach higher, too.

Keith reaches where the flag stands but Lance waits. Keith takes down the flag and still Lance waits. Keith stares down at the flag in disbelieving victory and starts running towards the trees but Lance _waits_. Just as Keith hits the treeline, just as Lance confirms there aren’t other Team Pink players lying in wait, ready to pick up the flag if Keith got caught the moment he touched the flag, Lance pulls the trigger.

_Splat._

Keith goes _down_ , and a heartbeat later, Lance’s comms erupt with cheers and he realizes Shiro and Pidge have completed their mission, too. He starts climbing down the trees, eyes locked on to where Keith lies half in a bush. He’s got a stunned look on his face that Lance could get used to.

“We got the flag, we got the flag!” Pidge yells, and it’s the most excited Lance has heard her be outside of digging her hands in whatever robotic circuitry she could find.

“Lance, status report,” Shiro says, but it’s not hard to hear the quiet satisfaction in his voice.

“Enemy neutralized,” he replies, running over to the dropped flag and picking it up. “Flag is secure.”

“Excellent,” Shiro says, voice practically dripping with triumph, and Lance can’t help but laugh. Who knew a simple game could turn their leader back into a competitive Garrison cadet?

There’s a rustle to his left and Lance looks over to see Keith unsuccessfully trying to pry himself from the bushes. His hair is uncomfortably pressed to his face under the helmet, and various greenery decorate his suit from the fall. He looks like a disgruntled old cat that took a nap in a tree just to wake up later and remember that it didn’t know how to get down.

Lance is startled to find he has no urge to lord his win over the other paladin and without conscious thought, he walks over.

Keith looks up when he’s half a meter away and barely has time to open his mouth to say something before Lance extends a hand. His mouth clicks shut, eyes locked onto Lance’s.

Lance smiles good-naturedly and wiggles his fingers. Keith startles and then blushing, he reaches up to clasp his hand around Lance’s wrist. Lance does the same and pulls backward.

“Thanks,” Keith says, once he’s up and brushing leaves from his body.

“No problem,” Lance replies, and then adds, only a bit tentatively, “Good game.”

Keith looks over at him, pauses, and then nods. There’s even a small curl to his lips. And then he does something that Lance will end up thinking about for five fucking months.

He reaches over and gently bumps his fist to Lance’s arm and says, “You’re a good shot, Lance.”

 

 

 

After what seems to be half an varga later, Lance has a plan.

It’s a stupid plan. A stupid, simple plan, but it’s a plan all the same and goddamn it, he’s going to _make it work._

Remembering Shiro’s remark that one time about sentry patrols to Allura over comms, Lance has been alternating between looking over at Keith worriedly and peering through the little window in the door, counting ticks between each sentry, for the last half varga. A completely mind-numbing task—Lance has no idea how Shiro did it all those years—but he thinks he’s got it down; the small crew number means less to keep track of.

When the next guard marches past their cell, Lance rushes back to Keith’s side and firmly shakes the shoulder opposite his injury. Keith doesn’t stir. He puts his other hand to Keith’s forehead; doesn’t seem like he has a fever. His hand shifts down to a smooth cheek and he gives it light smack.

“Keith. Keith, buddy, c’mon, wake up!” he whispers fiercely, and pushes hard at Keith’s shoulder again.

A sharp, pained inhale and listless eyelids peel open to reveal drowsy purple eyes, and a hand comes up to cover the one he has on Keith’s face. Lance heaves a sigh of relief, now that he knows he won’t have to carry an unconscious paladin on his back.

“Hey, think you can run? Or at least, walk really fast?” Lance asks as he quickly checks over the bandages for the millionth time.

“Why?” The question comes out croaking, quiet and so unlike Keith that Lance feels cognitive dissonance for a good tick or two.

He looks up to meet tired, curious eyes, and grins. “We’re getting out of here.”

 

 

 

 

A flash of black at the corner of his eye and Lance turns almost instinctively.

“Keith, hey, do you have a minute—er, dobosh?” he asks, and past the doorway to the kitchen, Keith pauses.

He’s missing his trademark jacket, but his bayard is strapped to his waist holster and he’s pulling on his gloves. _Training, he’s training again_ , Lance thinks. _He’s always working._

Holding out one of the freshly-baked cookies, he lets a little cajoling slip into his voice when he says, “Coran and I are doing taste-testing for Hunk, come try this out? I’ve eaten too many to tell the difference anymore.”

“But Lance,” says Hunk, obliviously—brutally—honest and out to ruin Lance’s life again, “you just said that Batch 14 was a pinch saltier than Batch 21.”

“I—I was. Lying. Obviously,” Lance splutters.

To the side, Coran raises a single, graceful eyebrow.

Resolutely pretending the blush on his cheeks doesn’t exist, he waves the cookie at Keith like one would dangle a piece of raw deer in front of a wild panther. “Pleeease, Keith, pleeeeeasssse—”

“Alright, alright, okay,” Keith says, and his eyebrows do this funny scrunching on his face like he doesn’t know whether to find the whining funny or annoying. Lance thinks it’s a win that he doesn’t immediately default to irritation.

Keith walks through the doorway, into the kitchen, and comes to a stop in front of Lance. And then he bends forwards and just. Bites the cookie in Lance’s hand. He just. Just bites—straight from. From his hand. _His_ hand—with his. That's his  _mouth_ , right there.

“Hm,” Keith says, like he hasn’t single-handedly reduced Lance to a basic single-celled organism, “it’s pretty good.”

Hunk brightens and steps forward, patting the alien equivalent of flour from his apron. “Yeah? Did you taste a little something special I added?”

Keith puts a hand to his mouth—the mouth that was millimeters from _Lance’s hand—_ and contemplates the floor for a tick. “Oh! It took me a while but yeah, you put—orange? Lemon? Something citrus-y in there? Goes well with the overall flavour.”

“Right? I’m glad you like it,” Hunk says, and the two of them share smiles like Lance isn’t still standing shell-shocked and staring down at the half-bitten cookie in his hand with something approaching fear.

Coran surreptitiously takes it from him and drops it in the recycler. Lance switches to staring at the older man with terrible, newfound comprehension in his eyes. Coran stares back, moustache twitching knowingly.

“So, uh, seems like you guys are making amazing things here,” Keith says, and then jerks a thumb back towards the door. “But, uh, I’ve got. Stuff. I’ll catch you guys later?”

Lance snaps back to life. “Wait, you’re not going to help us test the rest?”

Keith looks to him, and Lance feels like burning and now he knows _why_ —

“Sorry, Lance, maybe next time?” he says apologetically, fingers scratching the nape of his neck, where that infuriating mullet ends and god, Lance isn’t really infuriated is he, he’s actually—

“Are you sure? Coran has the tastebuds of an alien, like literally, he has no idea what’s good and what’s trash,” Lance attempts to persuade, eyes wide and pleading.

“Excuse you, I am entirely able to discern the quality of foodstuffs—”

“My creations are _never_ trash, Lance, you take that back—”

Keith glances behind Lance and a flicker of amusement crosses his features before his gaze flicks back to Lance, and something different rises in those eyes when they lock with his. Lance never wants to blink again. “Really, I’d love to, but—Shiro’s waiting for me. We’re training.”

“Oh,” says Lance, stepping back. “Oh, that’s—that’s fine, you’ve got things to do, um. Right. Have fun?”

Keith frowns at him, head tilted as he subjects Lance to a sudden scrutiny. “Yeah, okay.”

Lance nods, and then pointedly doesn’t watch as Keith walks out the door.

 

 

 

“—weren’t for your stupid ass, we wouldn’t be here!”

“Right, because it wasn’t like I was _following orders or anything_ —”

“You always have to mess things up, don’t you?! Just to get some damn—”

“—just trying to get you to relax but _noooo—_ ”

“—attention! Why can’t you be serious—”

“—always shut everyone but Shiro out—”

“—for _once in your goddamn life—_ ”

The yelling continues, growing louder and louder, until eventually sounds of violent striking of bodies against the bulkhead of the cell arise. The sentry pauses, its AI running relevant system protocol, and then it turns around, footsteps clanging as it marches back to the lone cell. It will separate the prisoners in the event that they irreparably harm each other prematurely, before their delivery to the main fleet. One of them will have to be contained elsewhere, under constant guard. The sentry accesses ship data for appropriate holdings as it places its hand on the panel by the cell.

The door begins to slide open and abruptly, the noises cease.

The sentry has one point two five ticks to register HOSTILE INTENT from the prisoner standing directly in front of it, and raise its weapon to subdue before its legs are swept out from under it, its blaster ripped from its grip and then—

 

 

 

Lance hits the ground. Again. For the nth time.

He lies there, staring unseeingly at the high, vaulted ceiling of the training room, not even having enough energy to groan at the pain lancing through his entire being. Even his intestines feel dead.

“Again,” a voice instructs, and Lance actually manages to groan this time, in place of an actual response.

Keith crouches at his side, forearms on his knees, blade held in his hands loosely. He looks at Lance with more patience than he used to, and maybe it’s because Lance was the one to go up to him and seriously ask for training tips, or maybe it’s because they’re finally settling into something resembling partnership, if not friendship. But whatever it is, Lance is just glad it’s kept Keith from blowing up at him for having yet to grasp this one move for a varga and a half now.

“Lance,” is all Keith says, quiet but commanding all the same, and Lance is starting to see why Shiro was so adamant about Keith leading Voltron in his place.

He gets up, muscles struggling and Keith watches but doesn’t try to assist, and before, it would’ve seemed callous and cold to Lance but now it just seems _right_ , like Keith knows Lance wouldn’t appreciate the coddling. He’s here to hurt, to learn how to hurt, he wants it to hurt. Keith gets it.

On his feet, Lance rolls his head, his shoulders, shaking out the bone-tired tremors in his limbs and readies himself, feet sliding into position. “Ready,” he says, voice rough.

Something darkens in Keith’s purple eyes, and then he lunges.

 

 

 

“—shit shit shitshitshit—” Lance keeps up a steady, strangled stream of curses as he drags the Galra sentry into the cell while Keith leans against the doorway on lookout. “ _Shiiiiiiiit,_ we are sooo fucked.”

Keith looks back at him and abruptly, he says, “Wait—think you can separate one of its hands?”

Lance gives him a weird look. “Dude, why?”

“Don’t give me that look,” Keith says, “I just thought we could use its handprint to open doors.”

They stare at each other for a couple precious ticks and then Lance grabs the sentry’s hand with his own and starts stomping on it’s elbow joint, muttering, “God, why didn’t I think of that?”

Keith turns back to the corridor, hiding a smile in his hand.

One final stomp, and the arm detaches with a crackle of sparks. Lance hands the hand—hah!—over to Keith, who flicks at its fingers warily. Dropping the sentry, Lance gives it a regretful glance, wishing Pidge was here with her brain to pull out ship schematics with a menacing smile and glint of her glasses. Reaching down, he picks up the alien blaster in his right hand and walks over to Keith, wrapping his other arm around Keith’s waist. He feels the warmth of another body under his fingers and shuts out the voice that wishes it were happening under different circumstances. They share a nod and start down the corridor at a hurried hobble.

“You used the move,” Keith says. He already sounds breathless.

They reach a corner and Lance carefully peeks around it. Clear. “What?”

“To take out the sentry—you used the move I taught you.” The delight is clear in Keith’s voice.

Lance huffs a laugh through his nose. “I didn’t think it’d work.”

“Well, it was pretty cool…though your form is still a little—”

“Aw, come _on_ , Keith—”

Keith laughs, quiet and genuine, like they aren’t in the middle of a stupid escape attempt, and Lance grins, even as he counts the ticks between sentries and scans their surroundings.

“You know I don’t actually mean all the things I said back there, right?” Keith says, after a while, and he turns his head, bringing their faces closer than they already are. His eyes are sincere and the lines of his face are asking Lance to understand.

Lance gives him a wry look from the corner of his eye, because otherwise he would totally just end up doing something that would be super not-appropriate for the situation. “Of course I know, Keith—just like you know I don’t mean what I said, either.”

Keith smiles, the firm line of his mouth loosening in relief, and what can Lance do, but smile back?

They move through the ship and he loses count of how many times they duck into hidden alcoves or double back or resort to opening doors without knowing what’s behind them, just to avoid patrols and security cams. Just as Lance starts to think they’re getting nowhere, Keith uses the robot hand to open another door and Lady Luck smiles down on them.

“Holy shit,” he breathes, jaw slack. “How—?”

“Don’t ask,” Keith says fervently, tugging them into the room almost—dare Lance say it—excitedly. “Don’t question it. Let’s just grab them and go.”

Their helmets and bayards sit on table in what appears to be an armory, galra blasters lining the walls, extra flight suits and other alien tech Lance just _knows_ Hunk and Pidge would love to get their hands on. To bad he and Keith can barely carry themselves around, let alone extra weapons.

It takes no time to snap on their gear, leaving behind the galra blaster they picked up, and then they’re slipping back out into the corridor, eyes and ears peeled for enemies. The recovery of their possessions settles Lance’s nerves and almost seems to rejuvenate Keith to an amazing degree—walking quicker and eyes brighter, determined. Lance can almost believe they’ll get out of this.

 

 

 

“Paladins,” Allura says over their comms, as the last galra defense on planet Srilq’oge falls. “This is far from over; there are still galra personnel on site, and we must drive them out to properly liberate the people of Srilq’oge.”

“Understood, Princess,” comes Shiro’s voice, still strong and confident, even after vargas of battle. Lance really needs to ask how he does it. “Let’s start with the capital. There’s enough bases for us to split up and each take one, use your scanners to detect galra life signs and round them up. We’ll deliver them to the Blade of Marmora.”

Hunk pipes up, “What about the citizens? If they’re trapped in the wreckage?”

“There shouldn’t be any,” Coran says. “The Srilq’eme relief efforts assured us they would inconspicuously organize escape routes for the citizens, but in the event that your scanners _do_ find any Srilq’eme, prioritize their safety over catching the Galra.”

“Sounds good. Alright team, split up. Meet back at the center base after you’re done. Anything happens, you let everyone know over comms.” And with that, Shiro pulls out of formation and they all follow suit, heading down to the planet.

“Oh! Also, let me know how the scans go, guys,” Pidge says. “Not sure how my additions will do, but hopefully the range and detection levels should be better.”

Keith speaks up, casual and relaxed, “Eh, you shouldn’t worry. Your improvements always work out great.”

“Oh. Thanks, Keith!”

Lance smiles at the exchange, just a small turn of his lips. He checks his screens and makes an agreeing noise. “Yeah, I’m getting a larger readout on the scanners, Pidge, they’re looking good.”

Hunk and Shiro add in their agreement, and across their connection, Lance can practically feel Pidge’s pride.

A dobosh later, he’s setting Blue down right before his respective galra base, just as the scans finish. Blips appear on the screens, purple for galra and…

He curses, hastily unbuckling his seat harness.

“Lance, what’s up?” Hunk asks, and his face pops onto Lance’s screen. He frowns when he sees that Lance is already half out the cockpit. “Buddy?”

Lance activates his bayard and steps out onto Srilq’oge dirt for the first time, though he has no time to admire a new planet now. He starts running towards the life signs immediately, into a dense yellow forest. “I’ve got galra life signs. But there’s a Srilq’eme with them and it looks like they’re heading to the base launch pad. Intercepting now.”

Voices interject instantly, Hunk’s loudest among them. “Lance, no, wait for backup! You said life _signs_.”

“Can’t; they’re too close to the pad to feel comfortable. No Srilq’eme is leaving this planet unless they want to,” Lance says, and then adds cheekily, “besides, you guys are already on your way, aren’t you?”

A beat of sheepish silence and then Shiro says, “You can be just as impulsive as Keith, you know that?”

Lance laughs, just as Keith objects with a loud, “Hey, I am not—”

Crying. Panicked, desperate crying, gasping sobs—Lance knows the kind of fear that gets you to sound like that and his mouth pinches tight. Picking up the pace, he clears a patch of low hanging branches and the wave of fury that rushes through his entire being at the scene before him is indescribable.

It’s a _child_ . A Srilq’eme barely taller than Lance’s _knee_ , digging their orange feet into the dirt and struggling against the visibly painful grip of a single galra soldier. Bright pink tears drip out of their four eyes, incoherent pleas falling from their mouth and in the tick that Lance stumbles onto the scene, the child yells out one last distressed call and Lance doesn’t need a translator to know the cry meant—

_help me! please somebody!—_

_mom_

_dad_

_please_

Lance goes completely cold.

He doesn’t even register the impact of the ground on his feet as he bolts forward, doesn’t register the rage that boils forth and leaves his mouth like a war cry, doesn’t register dropping his bayard or the vicious strikes of his palms, his kicks, against galra-hardened armor, doesn’t even have the presence of mind to revel in the cohesiveness of his training finally kicking in as he hits and punches and ducks and weaves circles around his opponent. He radiates with red-hot protectiveness and it seems like child’s play to deliver strike after strike after kick, his opponent stumbling and gasping like a newborn calf. With a low snarl, he smashes his elbow into the soilder’s gut and as the galra doubles over in pain, he latches onto a shoulder and an arm and _pulls_ , heaving the body over him to slam down into the ground. Lance stands and stares down with unbridled hatred at the unmoving figure at his feet.

“ _Èrqexm_?” a small voice asks.

Lance blinks, anger slipping away quicker than water, and turns to the voice. The child is huddled behind a tree, and their four eyes blink rapidly as Lance steps forward slowly, palms raised.

He stops when the kid’s ears flick, agitated, and kneels so he’s not’s looming over them. He turns on his translator.

“Hey, there. What’s your name? I’m Lance.” He smiles, close-mouthed.

“…I am Cha’xìm,” the child says, quiet.

“Nice to meet you, Cha’xìm,” he says, most likely butchering the name in the process. “I’m a paladin of Voltron, and I’m here to get you back to safety. I’ll take you to your family, how’s that sound?”

At the mention of family, Cha’xìm perks right up, orange ears pointed up and eyes flashing. It’s terribly cute and Lance is so busy smiling he doesn’t see another galra soldier moving through the bushes.

“LANCE!”

Reacting instinctively to that voice and that certain tone, Lance throws himself forward and wraps Cha’xìm in his arms, rolling through the shrubbery and hearing blaster fire hit the dirt where he was ticks before. He sits up and checks to see if Cha’xìm had gotten injured, trusting Keith to watch his back. The kid stares up at him, petrified and clinging to his arms.

“Cha’xìm, I need you go do something for me.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a communicator, pressing into Cha’xìm’s tiny hands. He points back to where he parked Blue. “I need you to run, run as fast as you can, back that way, okay? Use this to call for help, tell them your name and mine and ask for them to come get you. Do you understand, Cha’xìm?”

He waits until the child nods, and then gives them a little push in the right direction. Cha’xìm takes off, not looking back once.

He turns back to the fight, just in time to see the second soldier pointing a blaster at him, just about to shoot, and then Keith—still at a distance—activates his bayard and throws it, cleaving the soldier’s blaster in half and embedding itself into a tree.

But now Keith’s unarmed.

Lance’s hand goes to his side; it brushes nothing but empty air and he pales. Fuck, his bayard, it’s still on the ground where he dropped it. Before he can lunge for it, the second soldier snatches up his partner’s fallen blaster and shoots Keith twice, in the leg and in his side. He hits the ground with a sickening thud, gasping and curling up against the pain.

“Keith!”

He makes to run to his friend’s side but the whine of a weapon charging stops him dead. Helpless, he can only watch as two sentries emerge from the trees to haul Keith up by the arms, blasters aimed point-blank at his head. Blood is already seeping though the charred parts of his suit, dripping onto the ground, little _plip, plip, plips_ but they reverberate through Lance’s ears.

Keith struggles to raise his head, eyes already fluttering shut and no nonono he needs to stay awake, he can’t—

“Hey, hey, buddy, stay with me, c’mon, look—look at me, Keith—Keith!”

It’s no use. Lance can see the struggle, the determination in his friend’s eyes to stay conscious, to keep fighting, even as he bleeds. But it’s too much, and eventually, the pain pulls Keith’s eyelids closed. Lance bites back a cry.

“How cute,” the galra soldier says, and Lance turns to him, jaw tight and eyes blazing. “Oh, don’t look at me like that, I'm just going my job.”

He cocks his gun and smirks.

“Now, are you going to come quietly or do I need to give you matching wounds?”

With a blaster to his head and two to Keith’s, Lance is forced to surrender.

 

 

 

“Where the hell do they keep the escape pods?” Keith asks irritably.

Lance pushes them back against the wall as a patrol walks by. Keith takes the tick of rest to lean his head on Lance’s shoulder, eyes closing and a deep frown on his face. They’re pressed close, and Keith’s hair brushes across Lance’s jaw, softer than he thought it’d be. Lance looks away, disquieted. They need to get out of here, like yesterday.

Once it’s clear, they start moving again and he says, “Should be around here somewhere; I feel like we’ve walked through the entire ship.”

“You know, you’ve led us this far and we haven’t been shot at even once,” Keith says, squeezing the arm he’s slung on Lance’s back. “It’s impressive.”

Lance gives him a narrow-eyed look and Keith rolls his eyes, mouth twitching. “You know I’m serious, Lance. I don’t think I could’ve made it here on my own. Especially like this,” he adds, looking down at his wounds. The makeshift bandages are almost soaked through and Lance tightens his grip on Keith’s waist. He doesn’t reply.

“Hey, let’s try this door,” Keith says a few steps later, and without a word they take up their positions—Keith leaning by the panel, robot hand ready to go, and Lance across from him, bayard activated and poised to come blasting in, should there be any sentries.

Keith opens the door and Lance rushes through, doing a quick sweep of the room with his blaster up and ready. It’s clear, and he turns to guide Keith in when a blaring alarm sounds through the ship and the lights flare red around them.

“Shit,” they say.

Keith stumbles the rest of the way in, activates his bayard and slashes the panel on their side to metal pieces and dangling wires. The doors slam shut. He stumbles and Lance automatically catches him, practically clutching him, chest to chest. Keith slumps into his hold, vulnerable and yielding and god, Lance can’t take this.

“That’s not gonna hold them off,” Keith says into Lance’s neck, bayard deactivating. That one swing with his sword has left him pale and shaking.

“Then it’s a good thing we reached our destination,” Lance grins, forced, and nods to the lone escape pod nestled into the bulkhead of the small room. Just the one for the pilot team, probably. Sentries don’t need escape pods.

Accessing the pod’s control system is made easy with their handy-dandy sentry hand (hah!) and the screens light up. Only problem is, it’s all in Galra. Shit.

Lance settles Keith down into the pilot’s chair and looks back out the pod doors, chewing on his lips. He doesn’t think they have time to muddle through the language barrier. When they get back, he’s going to learn how to read Galra. With all the times they spend infiltrating the Empire, he thinks it’ll make shitty scenarios like this one much easier. Pidge had the right idea with studying Altean.

Maybe Keith will join him—learn something about his other half. Maybe.

Shit, _Pidge_ . Hunk, Shiro. Coran and Allura, god, he’s been avoiding thinking about where they are, how worried they must be—but now he and Keith are _so close_ to getting out of here and the fear of failure and the adrenaline rise, his heart beating harder. They’re so close.

He calls back to Keith, “Hey, uh, you making heads or tails out of that? Is there anywhere to punch in the castle’s last coordinates or something—”

“Just because I’m part Galra doesn’t mean I suddenly, magically understand the language,” Keith yells back only a little annoyed, used to his antics, and it only makes Lance’s heart beat warmer. “And there’s no helpful ‘put hand here’ prompt like that one time in the hanger.”

Lance walks back to the control console and looks over Keith’s shoulder for a couple tense ticks, eyes flicking over the display and fingers curled around his blaster. He points at the center screen, where a single bolded symbol flashes up top, followed by smaller symbols in a vertical list fashion. “That’s probably the startup flight sequence—” he then gestures to the panel to the right of the screen, where buttons and dials with the corresponding symbols line the console— “and these controls here match up with them, so let’s just press them in order on the screen and maybe we can get this thing working?”

He goes ahead and presses the first matching button. The pod shudders once, console lights blinking and then Keith’s seat engages its safety harness. The center screen goes from orange to green and a prompt pops up displaying the next symbol in the same bolded way.

Lance whistles, eyebrows raised. “Go me.”

Keith stares up at him. “How…”

“Dude, I have no idea,” he grins, shrugging. “I just guessed.”

“You…guessed—” Keith’s face goes through some hilarious contortions as his emotions cycle through disbelief, confusion, and finally—Lance’s favourite—resigned frustration. “Why am I not surprised.”

Lance claps him on his shoulder lightly, and glances down to his injuries again. _We’re so close_ , he thinks. Outwardly, he says, “I’m gonna watch the door. Think you can figure out how to contact the castle from the pod? Maybe send a distress signal after we eject?”

Keith nods, hands already flying over the controls as his eyes stay trained on the flight prompts. Not even a dobosh and the dude’s already looking like a natural operating alien tech; unbelievable. “I’ve been trying the comms on my helmet but I think we’re too far away. Once we get out, I’ll see what I can do.”

Then he looks up and tries to catch Lance’s eyes, frowning meaningfully at him. His voice is impossibly soft when he says, “Watch yourself out there.”

But Lance is already stepping out of the pod. “Yeah, no problem,” he replies absentmindedly.

He stares at the door, and strains his ears. Sure enough, there’s the tell-tale clanking steps of galra sentries marching down the corridor outside. They stop right before the force-closed door and Lance swallows, feeling his throat click with sudden dryness. He hefts his blaster up and sights down the barrel. It’s going to be a close-ranged fight and although he’s had practice, he knows he has a better chance if he pushes them back down the corridor than duking it out in front of the door.

He hears beeping and curses, backing away hurriedly. A tick later, it blows open and he opens fire, dropping the three sentries standing just beyond the mutilated metal with three shots to the head. He quickly moves towards the opening, scanning the corridors to his left and right. A group of sentries march towards him from the left so he stands in the shadows of the warped doorway and starts picking off as many as he can while they’re still at a distance. Breathe in. Out. In. Out. He loses himself in the pull of the trigger and when the sentries fire back, he ducks back into the room.

“Keith, how we looking back there!” he yells, and nearly gets a shot to the head. Damn galra bots.

“I’m working on it!” comes the stressed reply.

The sentries are only a few paces away when Lance drops the last two, breathing a sigh of relief. It’s short-lived, though, because he whips his head to the right when more clanking steps reverberate through the corridor. He brings his blaster up again, teeth clenched, and fires off a couple of blasts into the group and seeing some drop.

And then he takes a shot to the side.

He cries out, stumbles into the doorway and only just managing to keep his grip on his blaster. Back in the pod, Keith yells something, voice tinged with alarm but he can't make it out; his ears are just filled with the sound of blood rushing through them. Another shot goes off an inch from his shoulder and Lance returns fire blindly. He must have hit something because the shooting stops. Tears spring to his eyes and he blinks them back, fighting for clarity. His breath comes fast and high, whistling through his nose, and his fingers flutter over his wound like they don’t know whether touch will make it any better. He shakes his head forcefully, and sharpens his focus.

There’s still the group on his right, but another troop must’ve marched in from the left, after he’d taken down the ones from before. Shit.

Raising his blaster yet again, he aims and shoots, stubbornly ignoring the sharp, blistering pain in his side. He takes down sentries on both sides, risking safety for quicker fire by stepping into the corridor and hiding between the bodies of fallen sentries, picking up an alien blaster and shooting wildly in the other direction to incite confusion. He casts his gaze frantically around, looking for something, anything, that would help.

There. Maintenance panel amidst the right group, sparking from stray blaster fire. He aims, pulls the trigger, and the resulting explosion puts the entire troop out of commission. Some of them are even on fire.

But it’s not enough. Even as Lance turns his attention back to the left group, he knows he can’t keep this up. More of them march in from both directions, some a few metres from him getting to their feet. If he falls back, they’ll swarm the room and Keith’s still occupied with the pod.

Keith. Shit.

The both of them are injured but Keith’s the one not likely to last if they don’t get help within the next few vargas. They’re so _close_ and damn it all but Lance is going to get him off this ship if it’s the last thing he does. He’s the one who got them into this mess—he’s going to be the one who gets Keith out of it.

He spots another sparking maintenance panel and blows it up, firing into the confused mass of robots relentlessly.

And then, from the pod, Keith shouts victoriously, “YES! Ejecting in thirty ticks; get in here McClain!”

Lance breathes out. He takes out another five with a direct shot into the muzzle of a blaster, overloading it and blowing it up. A fresh wave of sentries round the corner.

“Lance, did you hear me—twenty ticks ‘til ejection!”

The sentries push in close, less than ten paces away and he’s so glad the corridor is small enough that only two or three can stand shoulder-to-shoulder. He grunts as his suit takes a hit, slamming him back against the bulkhead. His helmet display cracks.

“Lance!” Keith sounds angry now and Lance allows himself a small smile. Classic Keith. “Lance, what are you doing?! _Get your ass in here_ —four ticks!”

Lance blows up five more blasters and in the resulting mayhem, deactivates his bayard and throws it as hard as he can across the corridor and into the room, where it skids to a stop just inside the pod’s door. Gotta make sure Allura gets it back in case he—gotta keep it out the enemy’s reach.

Keith, who is straining against his harness to look over his shoulder—and Lance knows his injuries’ gotta hurt like a bitch but damn if the guy isn’t stubborn—gives it a confounded look.

Huddled behind a makeshift shield of dead bots, Lance stares into the room across from him, into the pod, committing to memory Keith’s every feature. He tastes blood in his mouth.

“Sorry, Keith,” he says, knowing it won’t be heard, knowing Keith is going to be so incredibly _pissed_ , knowing it might be the last thing he says, knowing this is all he can do. As the new wave of sentries rain blaster fire over his head, Keith’s eyes rise up to meet his, disbelieving and horrified.

And then the escape pod ejects.

 

 

“—and when you slashed that cruiser right through the middle—”

“—still not as cool as that drop-kick you got Voltron to do—”

“—alright, but like, Hunk’s multishot cannon is the _best_ ,” Lance says, and pops another alien blueberry thing in his mouth.

_“It’s not a blueberry, Lance, it’s a—”_

_“Sure, it’s yellow, but it still tastes like blueberries. Plus, we can’t even pronounce the actual name, so therefore: alien blueberries.”_

_“I don’t know why I even try.”_

_“Yeah, me neither, you know I always win.”_

Keith points at him with a yellow-stained finger and makes an agreeing noise, mouth full of fruit. “M’yeah, you’re right. That thing has an amazing range.” He scoops up a few more alien blueberries and jams them all into his mouth, yellow juice dribbling down his chin. He doesn’t seem to notice, unashamedly eating through the, frankly, huge Yrdevian fruit basket. Picking up a bright pink grape-looking thing, Lance scrutinizes it for a few ticks before shrugging and throwing it into his mouth. Huh, tastes like vanilla pie.

Technically, they’re supposed to be sharing it with the others, but oddly enough, no one else wanted to sit on Red’s head, eating good food and watching the sun set on yet another liberated planet. Well, it’s their loss; Lance is having great time.

The view is amazing. They’re sitting on a cliff, staring over a lush, pastel pink forest, the branches waving with the wind, the soft rustle of leaves sounding like music. Impressive green mountains stand tall in the distance, and above them, two alien suns hover high and warm in the purple sky. The breeze blows through their hair, and carries petals with them to swirl along Red’s head.

“Amazing, right?” Keith says, and Lance glances at him to see that he’s already looking back. “It's so different from Earth.”

Lance leans back on his hands. “Sometimes, when I think about going back to Earth, I wonder how I’ll describe to my family just how beautiful the universe can be. I don’t think anything I say can do it justice.”

Keith snorts. Eats another fruit. “If it’s you, I wouldn’t worry. You always know the right thing to say.”

Lance blinks. “I do?”

“Of course you do.” Keith gives him a look, wiping his fingers on his shirt. “Remember that time with that really annoying, tall, purple ambassador? You got him to stop spitting acid everywhere by like, complimenting his bracelets or something.”

“They were cool bracelets!”

“And that other time with the kids we found on that cruiser, you got them to open up to you in no time at all.”

“To be fair, it was mostly Hunk’s warm, approachable personality—”

“Lance,” Keith says, pained, “just take the damn compliment.”

“Well, if I _have_ to.” Lance pretends to look put-upon, and it just leads to Keith reaching across the short distance between them to stuff both hands in his hair and scrub furiously. Lance yelps, scooting away but Keith just follows, fingers clamped stubbornly on Lance’s scalp. They fall back onto Red, yelling and knocking knees onto shins.

Keith lands half on him and half on Red, laughing unrestrainedly. There’s fruit stains all over his mouth and chin and more on his hands and shirt, and Lance can feel the stickiness catch on his hair where Keith’s buried his fingers into. It should be gross because Lance takes good care of his hair, dammit, but Keith isn’t wearing his jacket, even with the wind up here, so his bare arms brush Lance’s face and neck and he can’t find it in himself to complain.

Lying there, he thinks he wouldn’t mind all the uncertainty of the future, of being part of something he still doesn’t quite understand the full scope of, if it meant he would have more of _this_.

Surprisingly, Keith beats him to it.

“I’m glad you’re here, Lance.”

Lance smiles, a slow sort of thing that nevertheless, ends up taking up half his face. “Yeah, me too.”

“Not like, just here, like sitting on Red, but also, um, in general? With Voltron and with the team and—”

“Keith—”

“—I’m just really happy that you’re here with me—that we can have this.”

“Keith, buddy,” Lance says, “I know.”

Keith groans, ears red. “Why do you let me talk, god I hate talking, ugh.”

Lance just laughs, pinching Keith’s cheeks and pulling. Keith just reaches behind himself and comes back with a handful of alien blueberries which he then messily shoves into Lance’s mouth. Lance splutters around them, juice dribbling down his jaw, and he spits them out, which—not a good idea because all the fruit just ends up falling down on him and Keith.

It’s so gross and Keith is yelling again, but he’s still smiling and god, Lance wouldn’t give this up for the world.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

 

 

The healing pod hisses open, and Keith falls out. Hunk catches him and the team gather around, oddly silent.

“Keith,” Allura whispers, eyes shining. “Oh, Keith.”

Four ticks. Four ticks was barely enough to realize what was happening, and to know he couldn’t stop it, strapped down as he was. Keith knows this, has been dreaming about it in the pod—but. _Four ticks._

Lance was torn from him in four damn ticks.

He sees it, clear as day, the way Lance looked at him, the way he mouthed something that sounded like regret, like longing and resignation. Remembers the sound of his body hitting the bulkhead, of his harsh breathing over comms as he fought off the sentries until the very end. Remembers the burn on his suit and the way it reddened in those four ticks.

He looks up, finds faces grim but determined, expecting and waiting. For him.

“Let’s go get him back.”

**Author's Note:**

> cue deleted scene of shiro and keith lamenting over their crushes being stupid heroes and sacrificing themselves.
> 
> And as it turns out, lance _does_ end up getting a matching injury with keith, whooo...sorry lmao
> 
> comments and kudos are all very appreciated!!! though i'm getting on a plane in literally 2 hours so this is all very last minute and i probably won't reply very quickly to messages!!!
> 
> edit: since i seem to be causing so much heartbreak with that ending dsfskfdf let me just say it here, bc idk if i'll ever finish the sequel wip, but lance is eventually rescued and keith gets to swoop him off his feet like some knight in shining armor (quite literally) and it's all fluff and no angst thank you for your time sorry for the pain LOL
> 
> [my tumblr](http://hiuythn.tumblr.com)   
> 


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